Wields Ill Rats
by RocketSolarCat
Summary: [ Willard ] What if Ben wasn't dead? Murders start to accumulate--Willard seems to be the key, but he's not talking to anyone but Socrates. Willard/Cathryn pairing. [Sorry I haven't updated in forever!] *Chapter 6 up!*
1. Stairwell Lids

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Authoritrix Notes: Hope this is good, yes, I spell checked it. Title and Chapter Name are anagrams for Willard's name. 

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Disclaimer: *Holds up a sign that reads: _No!_.* I don't own Willard, New Line Cinema does. 

Wields Ill Rats

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Chapter 1: _Stairwell Lids (Willard Stiles)_

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By- Trsolarcat / RocketSolarcat 

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Late at night, Willard Stiles shifted roughly in the dank hospital cot. The creaking springs made an irritable sound as he found a "comfortable" position among the off-white sheets that were twisted around his feet. On his first days here he found it hard to sleep in such a horridly unsanitary place (though his own home was not in grandiose splendor it was much better than this). His own bed much more snug—he would curse at this one ever time he found fault in it. 

Things like this would not matter to him if he were anywhere else. 

Here he had so much vacant time on his hands he would find problems with everything in his bleak room. The bleached walls with black stains pouring from the corners of the ceiling; the orderly who poked fun at him—calling him Rat-Man—even the food which was brought to him regularly. Everything could be ridiculed. 

The one thing he didn't ever complain about was Socrates. The pure white rat that slept in his gentle hands every night he had been in here. Delicate whiskers sniffing his sweaty hands as he curled them around the velvet rodent—he would always whisper to Socrates just before his eyes heavy closed, "Good-night, my one and only friend."

It happened to be that in such a night as this, he had a nightmare. Willard found these common things and they always had the same theme. In some cases he didn't even consider them true _nightmares_, instead they seemed to be reminders of the free world. 

The most popular—and far most frightening was the constant reminder that Ben King of the Rats (or so Willard himself had foolishly named him) might not be dead. As small a chance that Ben had survived Willard's last assault on him—it still bothered him. 

In his illusions, that appeared more real than anything else that actually was, he would be searching for his mother. It was that day, that he had found her dead, he remembered calling to her—checking her bed in vain. He went down the loosening stairs, gently pushing Socrates into his pocket, hoping the dusty-haired woman had just went to fix some coffee for herself. Also secretly hoping she wouldn't find any of his _friends _during the process. Hearing the sound of clamoring dishes he slowly glanced around the corner to see what would surely be his aging mother. Instead he seen nearly a hundred of the gray and brown bodies moving as if they were one mass across the counters—anger nipped at his voice as he yelled, "_Out! Out! You aren't supposed to be up here! Basement! Now!_" 

Pushing at them with his feet as he shoved their bodies towards the basement door. 

Then just as he had a thousand times over in this dream—he would find her. Her pale legs over the edge of the stairs, her flannel nightwear ruffled—her still lukewarm body. Eyes open in a sense of shock, as if her dying moment came to her with such fright that it lasted her even in death. 

Cold. Willard felt an empty feeling seep inside, whirling around on his feet, as if on instinct he knew what had happened. 

On the top of the green cabinet staring at him with placid black irises, smooth arranged brown fur was Ben. 

"_What are you so happy about?_" His voice was cracking, a mixture of hate and fear, "_Do you know what will happen, first they'll take her away—then me—then this house—and then you!_" 

The rodent's response was always the same: a blank, a mirthful feeling seemed to fill his eyes. 

Then the nightmare would change, he could hear himself screaming his words of hatred at the brown rodent—as the police neared his home—as Cathryn stood out his doors pondering in nervous confusion. His house was falling around him; Ben's _family_ was surrounding his crawling body as he pressed against the barricaded kitchen door. Socrates was dead; all that surrounded him were evidence of his own betrayal—of Ben, of Martin. Evidence that clawed, scratched, and bit at his cringing writhing body as they ransacked his entire world. 

Further still, did this dream push him into his misery—it took him into the place of his last freedom. Up into the stairwells, to the observatory of the gothic house. Where the last _battle _had taken place—as he fell into the rats below him the world seemed to shatter. His hands twisting through the vermin as they tore at his clothing scratched his face—then he pulled free—grabbing the fire-poker quickly, instinctively. Forcing his exhausted body up the stairs, blood pouring from his cuts blinding his vision. When he stumbled to the top, the poker still in-hand eyes forward as he beheld the loathed creature, sitting in a pool of its own blood. Still as Willard watched Ben murderously he could still feel that the chestnut rat was laughing at him—_laughing at him_. 

Holding the poker as one would a lance, he drove it at Ben—piercing his main body with it—Willard smiled wildly at the feel of the rod hitting warm flesh. This was better than killing Martin—this was more enjoyable. 

Again, again—and again!

Until he felt the rodent fall back, certain he was dead Willard relaxed, letting the blood splattered poker fall loosely from his hand, hitting the ground with an irritable metallic noise. In an almost synchronized moment, the police had broken in—guns poised and yelling something Willard didn't quite recall for all he could hear was the ringing in his eyes—as they grabbed his collar, forcing him to the ground he gave no resistance. He let them slip the cuffs over his bony wrist—pulling him up to a stand they began reading the Miranda Rights—another thing he could not remember in clarity. As they pulled his wary body down the black stairs, he noticed the rodent where it lay, blood covered its entire furry body exposing flesh and in places even the irony bone. Yet as he last caught a glimpse of Ben, he could _swear _the rodent's whiskers twitched and his eyes opened harshly.

"_He's alive!_" Screaming in terror, he remembered his struggling against the tight arms of the officers that held either of his sides, "_I have to kill him—let me go!_" 

They didn't listen to him; they just pulled him further—until he was screaming in the streets— "_He's still alive! He's going to kill me._"

Then his eyes would snap open, fear gripping him—as sweat poured down his face. He was looking into the irises of the white rat in which he held. Socrates, who knew his fears, and he said (as he did ever time this dream occurred): "He's still alive, I can feel it."

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Little became of this at first—until the day the detectives came—until then Willard thought it was only his speculation that Ben was alive—beginning to think he was even _paranoid_ (as the doctors kept saying). 

The detectives came in, all relaying questions (that had clearly been preset for a sane person who would give answers). They did not realize Willard had not spoken a word to anyone since they had took him from his middle-class house while he was screaming for all to hear— "He is still alive!" 

The questions they asked made him ponder, doubting the fact that Ben was dead (as did the dreams he'd had): _How easy is it to train rats, Willard? Could someone else do it, Mr. Stiles? What kind of rats did you use? _

Did they not understand? It was Ben—only him—no one was behind him. No human force could ever control the Rat King. 

Several weeks went by, the detectives still prodding at Willard—_in hopes of what? That he would miraculously begin to explain the sudden events; that he would tell them whom this "person" was doing the murders, what did they expect him to say? _

One foolish novice detective, in his fury, stormed from the room throwing to the side a pile of manila folders that scattered across the floor. Not quite knowing how to approach this—Willard stayed solidified until he was for certain the doctors or even the detectives wasn't within earshot of him. Gently sliding to the end of the bed, as Socrates noticing the change popped his furry face out from his place within Willard's navy hospital gown, reaching down gently with his stiff fingers he opened the first of the folders. 

Crime scene pictures, gruesome ones—the first of a bloody corpse lying face down in a drainage ditch, tattered clothing, appearing to be almost skinned alive. Willard curiously thumbed through the rest of the file, in a detached manner—looking dully at each mauled corpse—when he had reached the end he threw them to the side. 

Socrates who had been, the whole time, on his shoulders was sniffing peculiarly at Willard's ears. When he turned to him, the white rat shrank back—rubbing its face, in a near_ shamed _way.

"What are we going to do?" Willard questioned as he retreated back into the safety of the dingy bed, pulling the sheets over his collar. After a moments time, "Socrates!"

He held the rat within his hands—petting it with his index finger he calmly said, "Can you _find_, Ben?" 

The blank expression of the rodent held no answer. 

"You can tell him can't you—hold him off for me—tell him I'm in here to pay for what I have done to him." Willard smiled viciously, "Tell him…_I'm sorry_." 

Socrates eyes seemed to grow blacker. 

"It's not a lie!" Willard argued in a cynical voice, "I have to think of some way to get rid of him, don't I? Its just a little bending of reason!" 

Socrates blinked as his tail began to sway—_obviously he didn't believe Willard's apology. Would Ben even take such an apology—the King of the Rats take such a lame excuse to buy time? _

It was all Willard could think of to hold off the rats—which in his own head, or perhaps not—were out there waiting for him. 

He was the true target of the ill-hearted Rat King; it was only a matter of time before Ben would come after him. 

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Authoritrix Notes: I hope I didn't make too many errors in this one, please inform me if I did—or if you liked/disliked it. I'm my own worse critic and I don't like it. o.O Is there any hope for the rest of the world??? I kind of apologize for the comedy at the very last—I felt like it. T.y. 


	2. Contrary Homes

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Individual Thank You Notes:_ **Erik Devotee**, It was during the dream and real life. T.y.! **Dark Collins**, ^-^ Yay, I put someone in suspense! LOL, T.y. **"..."**, Thank you so much for the nice words, hehe. I think your mind works like mine in the rat-connection thing. o.O **Crying Child **Thanks! ^-^ I didn't notice that either 'til I was REALLY bored. Ha. **(See ch.1 for disclaimer, etc.) Please be patient with me, I'm giving background. I've also recently found/read a copy of Ratman's Notebooks so I'm incorporating some things in it—to here in later chapters. **_

Wields Ill Rats

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Chapter 2: _Contrary Homes (Cathryn's Romeo) _

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By- _TrSolarCat / RocketSolarCat _**-**

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**N**othing was going her way. 

Cathryn brushed her slender hands down the length of her tight mini-skirt, smoothing it, then tossed back the black locks of hair, that drooped in front of her sweating face. Suddenly as if all she had lost control of her neck—her head fell onto the steering wheel of the little German car—murmuring in a irate tone, "Come on, you piece of crap!" 

She made one last attempt at starting the car, but as the engine revved smoke poured from the back-end of it. Angry, she kicked open the doors with her tawny brown high-heeled shoes, closing the car's door in disgust. Digging quickly in her velvet purse, as she stepped away from the blue Volkswagen (that was beginning to become shrouded in black smoke), she pulled out her cell-phone. 

Dialing rapidly as she shoved the phone into her ear, "Molly? I'm going to be late—"

A whining voice replied something. Cathryn made a repulsed look, moving the phone from her face, "I know, but it's this damn car again..."

_She had actually said 'again'. The first time was at Willard Stiles' house; the tires had been blown--chewed up by the rats. He had told her, he'd go in and call--but this was a lie just an excuse to get inside before the police had seen him. To think she'd thought he was timid, benevolent and admirable. That's always how it was Cathryn's Romeo—they turned out nothing but liars or worse… When was she ever going to learn? _

She felt a sense of odious guilt fall over her, but the voice on the other end didn't give her long to think about the dark matters at heart. The voice idly called her name, then she snapped back into reality—"Nothing, Molly. Look just tell him I'm going to be late and find me the number of the cheapest tow truck you can in the phone book, all right?"

Without bothering to listen for an objecting reply Cathryn harshly punched the button of the tiny cellular—throwing it back inside the velvet shoulder bag. 

She felt like screaming—for the entire world to hear—ever since the night that she'd seen them take Willard away she had realized something. She _loved_ him. All of the men she'd been around weren't anything compared to him—but it made no sense, of all the people for her to give her heart to it was a murderer. 

Irony had struck at her again, she noticed this only because as she walked up to the sidewalk, waving the smoke from her face—that her car had broke down in the most formidable place she could have imagined. 

The place where the car had stopped was less than three houses away from the Stiles' home. 

_God, or at least some celestial deity, was laughing at her. She knew it._

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**I**t had taken the mechanics several hours to fix the pint-size Volkswagen enough to get her into the driveway of her apartment. She almost considered not locking it—in hopes of someone _stealing _it. Each stair she ascended felt like a weight was tied around her ankles, and when she finally reached her destination—she gave a wary groan as stood stupefied (almost not believing she was at the top). 

Thrusting her purse and coat to the side, she flopped absently down on the leather couch. Her smooth hands groped for the remote—"_Here on, KXL-News13, we report the sixth rat-related incident…Herald Jones brings us that story—._"

She considered turning it off. It only made her think of Willard once more—instead she shoved herself off the couch and her voice loudly began to hum—_how long could they talk about it?_ Then she began to walk into the bedroom pressing the Voice Machine's button—"_Hello this is Detective Sigmund, with the FBI, if you could give us a call Miss. Miller….We'd like to ask for your assistance in this case—concerning Mr. Stiles…._"

Cathryn didn't hear anything other than "Mr. Stiles"; the rest seemed superfluous to her ears—the television was still there, but she didn't hear it. 

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Mr. Stiles. 

The deity above wasn't just laughing anymore—he was gathering friends. How else could all this happen to her? In one day? 

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**H**is eyes roved over the room haplessly it had been a full week since Socrates had left. _To find Ben. _The confiding prison he was trapped in did nothing for his worries—it intensified the thoughts he had over Ben (greater so on Socrates). 

Willard had yet to eat the salty food the Orderly had given to him, it would not be the first time he would pass up a meal in this place. Certainly not the last either. Glancing the platter over he found it consist of: soup, several leaves of lettuce (what might be referred to as a _salad _had it anything else but greenery); and most of all cheese. _The cheese was always there. _A sick joke of the Orderly's: "_Food for the mice._"

This small thing was enough to make him shake with hostility—it was that nagging feeling that happened with Martin—the loathing thorn in his ribs that he couldn't remove so it would continue to irritate him to no ends. 

He was brought to his feet—jolting the tray as it skidded into the off-white wall, watching it spill all over the ground tediously—it was his only means of revenge in this place (self-defeating yet, effective).

When he heard the footsteps approach, he hastily returned to the abhorrent cot—resuming his placid face. The dull look of his catatonic state was another wondrous tactic at revenge, _yell_,_ scream_, _threaten—Willard can't hear it! Willard can't hear anything! Willard doesn't eat anything—Willard doesn't sleep; he just stares out at the empty world—but you need him for something, something he can only tell you, but he won't tell you! _

Several detectives came in, as before—the young one was there—Willard enjoyed the look of the younger detective (the one that had thrown the folder down before). Sitting in a semicircle before his sordid bed, saying to him in a overly passionate voice one asked, "Willard…we understand that you don't want to talk to us…"

"_What was the first clue?" _He sarcasticly wanted to reply. 

"We brought in someone who might be more comfortable for you to talk to…"

_"Who would that be? A rat?" _He asked them in his mind, wondering if they were patronizing him—as his Orderly did—just seeing what would bring him back to The World of the Living. Nothing could, as far as they could bring to him. 

But as he sat contemplating in his tranquil nature, a creature he thought would never cross him again—came into the room. 

_Cathryn. _

With hesitation she entered, soundless shoes against the hard floor, glancing at her surroundings with her cherubic irises, nervous—yet she was still beautiful. Her tight mini-skirt covered in front by the handbag she kept a tense hold on—her slender attractive body. 

Cathryn made it hard to stay catatonic. 

_He hated her. He loved her. It was so confusing, these feelings about her. She refused to help him when he most needed it. When he called out to her begging for help as he held tightly the bars of the window—she backed away from him alarm festering in those pretty eyes…She must hate him to leave him in such a state. Let him die there—in that house of rats. _

"Willard." She gave in her gentle undertone of a voice, her eyes were glazed—as if she were going to cry. Reluctantly the detectives rose, casually heading for the door, as they gestured to Cathryn something. Handing her various items—a manila folder—_god knows whatelse! _His mind was gone he was numb from the reality of Cathryn being in this intolerable place with him. 

"Willard." Again she summoned, as she approached cautiously reaching for him with her delicate fingers. He wanted to jerk away—_yell at her_, _strike her_, _tell her she was lying again that she hated him_—but nothing like that happened. For when her warm touch fell on his pale face it went through him fervently—spreading the warmth inside his body like a plague, it would not stop until it reached every fragment of his being. "Willard, please, we need your help."

Putting her other hand on his shoulder, his changeless eyes were looking into hers with the unwavering coldness, as he watched the tears form on her angelic features. She let go quickly, bringing a hand up to her face, shielding it in shame, "Why did I think this wouldn't happen?"

She told herself this aloud—as he watched her with the stillness, the crime of this cruelty he felt by doing this—was sickening him. Cathryn was bitterly weeping before his eyes, and he was so shallow to stay catatonic—"Willard, I didn't mean to! I didn't." 

"I know." Willard unexpectedly whispered, his eyes still reddened and unchanged, repeating it in an echoing murmur, "I know."

It didn't matter all of a sudden to him that the detectives where listening—perhaps—or that Cathryn deserved it. 

_He didn't want to see her cry anymore. _

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Authoritrix Notes: _Please don't hate me…I hope this chapter was good. I always have problems with second chapters. I will do better next chapter. That's when it gets back to the Ben death type stuff. Thank you. I love you all. ^-^_


	3. Metaphysical Genius

Wields Ill Rats 

By: _TrSolarCat / RocketSolarCat_

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Chapter 3: _Metaphysical Genius (Escaping the Asylum) _

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Wake up. 

Cathryn threw her arms around him, tears still falling from her radiant face, she softly said, "Willard! Oh, god! I thought you weren't going to…I mean…"

"You left me." He told her, but he truly wanted deep inside of his secluded heart to say that he had missed her. "I was going to die."

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Can't you hear it? Wake up!

She pressed into him further, her crying more bitter now, she told him, "Willard, I was scared! I didn't want to leave you—you just looked so horrible in that house. I didn't know what to do! You k-killed Martin!"

He jerked at that name, it brought such memories back, he didn't want to hear it anymore. She felt his twitch under her gentle hands and let him go. Leaning back onto the cold stained walls he stared into her eyes with malice. 

"Don't say his name." He was hostile at the sound of it. But her eyes revealed something in that moment—it wasn't fear or hate it was— 

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Wake up!

"I don't want to die in here!" He yelled suddenly hysteria swept into his voice, as he seen that odd look in her eyes, "He wanted to kill me! He took everything I had from me—don't you know that?"

"I know." She still had that peculiar look in her eyes—it was something he'd never known before now. Then she leaned over to him calmly, her hand went to his sweating forehead going idly among his coarse hair, "But this is your chance, Willard. Help these people—and maybe they will take you out of this place."

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Wake up. It's so loud, how can you not hear it? 

She held out the folder in her hands, reluctantly he took it from her letting his own hand slide across hers—she was so warm he didn't want to let go. With his heart aching, he took the manila folder allowing her fingers to slowly slip away from his own and the sense of peace in his mind escaped him—the cold was all he had left now.

"Miss. Miller." The detectives came in, it was the young one whom spoke first (Willard was beginning to detest this young man now). Willard instinctively resumed his unruffled face but as he watched Cathryn move away unhurried in her pace, he wanted to tell her anything—yet knew he didn't dare or the detectives would know he was indifferent to his company. They might begin to think he would eventually talk to them as well—which would not ever happen. 

As he watched her slim form disappear through the open door accompanied by the investigators he remained deathly still until she slipped away from his view. 

Away from his life. Again. 

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Wake up! Can't you hear it—its so close to you—One, two, three—! CLANK! CLANK! BAN—K!

It was deafening; the noise filled his ears. A wailing high-pitched tone that pieced his ears—his eyes opened with a sharp snap. 

It was the fire alarm. Moaning he pulled himself into a tight ball within the sheets, this was not the first time they had a fire drill. Normally it would be midday before they would test such things. 

"Odd." He groaned as he brushed a hand across his face as his eyes adjusted to the darkness of the room. A red glaring light was shining out in the corridor of the asylum, giving Willard enough light to see the manila folder floor. Its contents scattered there as a reminder: _Yes, Cathryn was there, yes—she had touched his face and cried for him. But that was not today. It was sometime ago—a week perhaps, time is irrelevant here. _

When the noise had not stopped in several intervals of time, Willard began to worry; crawling out of the he stealthy crept to the door. The red glow lit up against his face—it was the Panic Buttons. These were designed in every room for the inmates to call the orderly on duty to their aid. Giving a tilt of his head, he realized in the deadly silent halls—all the lights were cherry lights were on, save his own. 

Willard leaned against the door further, standing on the ends of his feet he caught a glance of the Orderly's Station, near the end of the hall. His hand fell against the door handle groping for a better view he pushed against the handle until—the handgrip was down with a sudden jerk. 

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Unlocked. The fire alarm must have tripped the emergency mechanism—the doors are all unlocked. 

Pulling the door open, as it creaked tediously—Willard pushed his head out discreetly—his mind was whirling. Further still, he came out, glancing at the red lights all through the foyer—_why was anyone else not coming out? _

His feet were cold against the floor, as he turned away from the Orderly's Station, he saw there was no exit in the opposite direction—he'd have to sneak past the Orderly. If the pathetic Orderly was even still there, all he could make out was that it was empty. 

Quietly he went down the hall—feet sliding against the flattened linoleum flooring, as he neared the station a scratching noise occupied his ears. First it was near-silence, but as he neared the location near the end of the hall, it grew gradually louder. 

Like nails against a chalkboard—like tiny claws against the walls—like _rats_. 

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There are rats in here. He told himself, as he finally reached the station, as his eyes edged towards it—almost as if he _wanted _to see the Orderly. The television was in the background—static across its screen giving a hissing sound it tinted the room in blue still no sign of the guard. 

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Scratch, scrap…

The noise was so much louder in here. Delicately stepping in the doorway his eyes were drawn to the food on the table—spilling down the flank of it. 

A loud creaking noise, Willard turned to it—the Orderly was there. His face was ghastly pale; blood was seeping on his clothes—torn and falling from his body. Willard's first instinct was to run—but the Orderly had stepped into the door's jamb blocking it. 

The guard's eyes stretched into a panicked trembling look as he backed away. "You!" 

"Where are they?" Fearfully he whispered, trembling himself. Shaking from the sight of the badly mangled (yet, miraculously living) Orderly. 

Giving a nervous shaking of his head, the Orderly stepped further away. 

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It was just like Cathryn—refusing to assist him. 

"Where are they?" He grew louder with sudden infuriation—"Tell me!"

"They are—." Began to whisper the Orderly still shaking from fright, blood poured from his hairline and flowed into the crevices of his features. Dripping to the floor as he spoke, "_Behind…_"

He whispered alarmed, as he rose a quaking finger. 

Distressed Willard rotated on his heels—as a blur of white jumped at his from the corner of his eyes. Frozen he felt a warm pair of feet hit his back, he couldn't move fast enough—he waited for the needle-like teeth to sink in—

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Nothing. 

Willard's eyes were shut harshly, he was expecting the piercing skewer to invade his skin at any moment, but when there was none he reopened his eyes slowly. Instead an itching pair of whiskers pressed against his neck, then a writhing nose sensitively along his shoulders. 

"_Socrates?_" He breathed, as he reached for the tiny vermin, pulling the rats claws from the material of his hospital gown. The ivory rat's pink nose sniffed at his face as he held it out to him—"Did you find Ben? Is he here?"

The Orderly, the whole time, had been standing in pained awe, when Willard at last turned his eyes back to the guard he said, "Are you going to kill me?"

"If you don't help me escape, I will." Willard smoothly lied, he didn't truly even know where these rats were, "I want something to wear."

"Hell, man! Whatever you want!" Wailed the Orderly, as he pointed a shaken finger, "There—go—third locker to the left is mine. Take anything you want!"

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When he returned to the entrance of the door, wearing a deep blue sweater and a pair of chestnut pants, Willard stared at the shaking Orderly who was giving a nervous watch at the door. 

"Can't you hear them?" He told Willard, "They are all over the place."

"I want to leave. They will follow me." He assured the Orderly, though in his mind he hoped for a rat to tear at the Orderly's neck until he was dead. 

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Its funny—he was enjoying this so much, though he was scared himself. Watching the Orderly squeamishly twist his head to the sides listening to the scratching of the rats running free somewhere in the asylum—ready to spring out at either of them at any second. 

Through the corridors they went, until they were at the last hall's end, Willard could see the red Exit sign flaring at the top through the last room—a broad room of tables. _It must be the Visitor's room, no wonder he didn't know what it was at first glance. No one would visit him—the Rat-Man._ Several games lay strung out across the tables as well as the floors. 

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At last he was free. 

He hugged Socrates to his warm body gently before he quicken his pace into the Visitor's Room, his eyes hopefully set on the Exit sign.

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Then he saw them. Pouring through a vent by the door—spilling like liquid onto the floors. A giant mass, flooding out only to shrink to the outer walls of the room. Climbing up lamp cords so they could sit hastily on the tables (there were so many—they ended up falling to the floor—as a new one climbed up). _One giant body of rats!_

Willard's heart sank—but his pace did not slow—he watched as the Orderly behind him did not follow but instead fell into a run for the corridor they had just left. 

Rats surrounded his feet, slipping around him as he neared the exit. He was expecting the nips of their teeth or the stabbing of their claws at any second—as he did when Socrates had flung onto his back—but nothing was happening.

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Ben must have wanted him alive. The rats paid him hardly any mind at all—as he finally reached the exit—giving the doors a push. 

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He was free—he thought as he watched the door close behind him—leaving behind him the horrid prison. He held Socrates tight in his sweating palms bringing him closer he kissed the rat sweetly on the bridge of its nose—"Free Socrates, free."

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Authoritrix Notes: Thank you all for reviewing last time! 

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	4. Briefly Told Tales

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[Brief Note: _In this one, I am introducing a character (a minor one) that was left out of completely from the movie. I cannot take credit in his character, but I can in his actions because he had few actions in the book._**]**

Wields Ill Rats 

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Chapter 4: _Briefly Told Tales (Alfred's Little Boy) _

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By: TrSolarCat / RocketSolarCat

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**W**illard pulled Socrates closer to his body, the little white ball of fur was shaking—the night air was nipping at them both as they had begun to walk from the gray asylum. He pulled the azure collar of the sweater up around his neck, saying to the ivory rat softly, "Socrates, we have to go _home_."

_Home? Wouldn't that be the most likely place to find him? Wouldn't they see him when he got there—have it staked out, ready to take him back to the asylum—would they know he was escaped tonight? _

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But he had to see it one last time.

Sentimentalism would be the death of him, it always wiggled its way into his mind—hate, fear, anger—_did he never think things through? _Lashing out in anger, but he wouldn't have reacted any other way. If he didn't act rashly—_if he had just stood and calmly thought with a good-natured conscience why it was an evil thing to kill someone, even Martin_—he wouldn't have acted at all. Instead standing catatonic and letting Martin take the damaged pieces of his life away, anything that was left to be taken in any case. But he had reacted and that was why he was locked away in that insane asylum—he refused to let Martin _kill _him by destroying his life. _Maybe insanity was just an odd term for someone who refuses to let another trample him—someone who reacts to being wronged. _

The lines were so blurred. It was hard to tell anymore—he was certain the asylum had planted these thought into him. Willard couldn't tell right from wrong—and perhaps there wasn't one anymore. 

Willard could almost imagine the house so vividly in his mind, without even closing his eyes—he had done just this in the asylum as well. Envisioning the ivy vines creeping down the side of it, the creaking boards of the stairs, his father's picture resting neatly over the fireplace. 

Suddenly, Socrates started to wriggle in his palms making several sharp hissing noises. Willard looked down curiously at him imploring, "Socrates?"

The rat poked its salmon nose from Willard's cupped hands and inquisitively sniffed the air. Only then did Willard realize what the small rodent was whiffing—a small red fast food building was ahead—the smell of hamburgers and grease was rising from a gray puff of smoke at its top. Smiling Willard opened his palms smoothly as the pearly rat climbed tediously up his arms, "Are you hungry, my friend?"

______________________

**"M**ay I take…your order?" The young man's hands were jolting about the cobalt counter—Willard felt a smile emerge, he wasn't as forgotten as he thought, the brown-haired man definitely knew who he was. They must have put something on the news about him—_either that or this man was phobic of rats_—Socrates was sitting on his shoulder waywardly crawling down his arms. 

In his tender undertone of a voice Willard replied searching the youthful fellow's face quaintly, "We'd like a large hamburger meal."

_Don't be specific—make him talk back to you. _

"W-hat kind of drink would you—?" Sweat was seeping down the adolescent's features—his eyes wide and searching, each of his words was choked out as if they pained him.

_Its ridiculous how the mind can fabricate what exactly might happen—nothing actually would happen to this young man—but what frantic ideas did this man have racing through his crowded head. Maybe he thought Willard would have rats attack him—jumping out of no where to tear at his throat. Maybe he was internally wishing he'd never taken the night shift—or perhaps he forgot to tell his girlfriend goodbye. _

"Coke." A smile still on his face, Willard grasped tenderly at Socrates velvet fur, watching the man twitch in private agony. 

"Fries or Potato Cake?" 

"Both." 

A laconic moment later, Willard was handed a grease-stained bag folded rigidly at the top, the employee gave him a curt farewell—Socrates and he were back on the moist streets with the hazy glow of the lampposts as their only light. Absently Willard pulled out the fat-coated French Fries—offering the first to Socrates—"Don't make a mess up there."

_____________________

**_A_**s it turned out, the asylum was quite far from his home. When he reached the old vine-covered residence it was through the backside—_No point in making his presents known. _

He hopped the fence tumultuously landing with a jolt—the ground beneath him was corroded in a downward shift (like a little valley), the grass stalks hid it. Brambles and young trees were sprouting spontaneously about the little _garden_. 

_Father's pride and joy—the healthy little rockery Best in the neighborhood, everyday he'd work on it—not after that day. The day he died. The rockery isn't anything more than an abandon old mess (as messy as the gory blood that poured from daddy's wounds—falling on the bathroom floor—splattering into near-black globs on the rug). _

The rockery's gone to hell. 

**Just like Daddy has. **

Willard shook his head a melancholy feeling was creeping into his brain—thinking about _father_ always did this to him. He would always go through the same irrational arguments: _If he wasn't such a costly child, if his mother wasn't so demanding—if Martin wasn't driving him so harshly, forcing him to it—if the economy wasn't so down—if…_

Socrates nuzzled against him warmly. 

"You're right, lets go inside and get our things…It is the last time we will be here." Willard cooed to him smoothly—_but was their stuff still there? Does someone usually do something with a vacated house's belongings? _

As he turned to walk in he heard a brass voice calling out, "Alfred!" 

_Alfred? Father's name? _

Quickly he turned to in. An elderly man was calling towards him—leaning over the fencing in the next yard, a cane dangled from his left arm, a coffee mug in his right (oddly enough he was wearing a sun hat as well). Dusky gray hair and a short trimmed beard, the man looked vaguely familiar—his black eyes were friendly as they searched Willard with them promptly. 

"Alfred, that boy of yours has been in my leek garden again!" The man scowled but Willard could sense that he was joshing him—"If he does that again, Napoleon'll nick his trousers good."

"_Major Robinson?_" Willard queried as he took note of a scruffy old dog roaming the ground behind the old man. He quickly grabbed Socrates, shielding him from the man's view. 

"Damn right, ol' man and that boy of your is going to have sore legs jumping that fence all the time—getting away from Naps!" 

_Did the major truly mistake him for father? It seemed so—the major was so old—Willard had known him all his life. Willard also noted—the major was old then too, it seemed the man had always been old. Perhaps he had finally lost his mind—Willard hoped this was the case and not that the man was playing him only to turn him in. _

Willard decided it was best to play along, he groped his memory for the man's surname yet it evaded him, "I'm sorry he's still doing that, I'll give him a good spat for you—Sir."

"See that you do." The man smiled, the dog behind him came up—getting on its hind-legs it propped up on the fence—giving a sharp bark. The Major took his hat off swatting the dog—yet it backed away only to come back to the chain link fence to furiously yap once more. 

_The dog must smell Socrates. _

"Well Major, I'll be going." Willard flicked a hand through his hair, meaning to be casual—but as he turned to leave, the wintry man told him: 

"Alfred, don't spat him too much—Willard is a good boy. Tell Henrietta those pies she sent last week were wonderful. Oh! Alfred, don't take this too harshly—," Robinson uttered, Willard had only taken a few steps away—"Don't get so caught up in work! I noticed you aren't spending much time in the rockery as you used to…Those rhododendrons are beginning to show it!" 

_What a queer thing for the man to leave him with—rhododendrons. It was strange—he wanted to laugh at it—but also had the notion to cry. Because he knew exactly when the Major and his father had this conversation really—it was an hour or so before his father went into the bathroom. _

He remembered father coming into the house looking out of sorts and telling mother that Robinson had thanked her for the blackberry pies. 

(He even remembered the flavour!)

Father said, "I am going to work on some things in the attic."

Naturally mother let him have it, saying, "You are spending too much time up there lately! You need to spend time with your son—."

The last thing he saw of his living father was as he passed him in the hall. Willard noted the agitated look upon his normally kind face—Henrietta's nagging behind them both. His father brush up against him—as he went into the attic—returning several minutes later with the Swiss Army Knife in his hands. He didn't know what father meant to do—but if he had—he would have stopped him. Somehow. 

When he reached for the crusted backdoor (coloured in faded yellow); he stood looking at it someone had sloppily taken red spray paint and wrote: _"David_ _waz_ _here!"._ The lock was busted, spider's webs covered the corners—he brushed them away as he pulled Socrates out from his pocket. 

Giving a heavy push to the door, it began to creak open, "Ben isn't here, is he, Socrates?"

He whispered but was surprised to hear a hollow echo within the house. No other sounds where inside—no scratching, no clawing—just the dense air around him and sound of his own feet, nothing stir. 

Cautiously he went up towards the stairs, hearing the familiar yielding under his foot as he put weight on the first one—looking absently about the room before continuing upward. 

_He kept reminding himself of all he came for….which he didn't quite make a real list of until now: The fire poker, some clothes—father's momentos._ _He was shaking with anticipation—or perhaps anxiety. _

His foot hit the top step—_odd feeling this was. Until now he hadn't felt it—but his stomach was in knots._

**Someone is here.**

He felt the eyes on him. 

Socrates was on his shoulder—suddenly his back was arched—he made a low hissing noise as his tail shot up. Willard's eyes shot across the room instinctively—seaching. 

"What are you—doing here?" Willard seen quickly before him a flaxen-haired apprehensively standing in the hallway connecting to the attic, his cold blue eyes watched Willard horrified. His hands held to his chest, as if he were hiding something—nervously backing away. 

"Don't you think I should be asking that! It's my house." Willard demanded expeditiously as he took Socrates back from his shoulder. 

The boy's face turned cold paling—until he was almost white with fear. 

"What is in your hands?" He slowly inquired, but before he did the boy suddenly let loose a burst of energy—running for him—he brushed past Willard, his hands still tight against his chest. 

**_That boy knows about you. _**

He hadn't the time to follow before the boy disappeared under the stairwell—and he heard the loud noise of the doorway being forcefully kicked open…and his harsh footsteps growing distant. 

**_That boy has Ben. _**It was a quick thought—but he imagined that boy was holding Ben. He thought, what if Ben was working with someone—if so he might have lost the one and only chance at finding him. But he smiled, he knew for sure that he would find the boy again: 

"Until we meet again—David." He said quietly, as he continued up the stairs. 

But as he entered the attic he had a sudden epiphany—etched in red across the wall—the names of all the victims so far (first names): Victor, Dan, Aiymee, Ingried and Danielle. 

He had been going about this the wrong way—so had the police! They were looking for a cold-hearted killer—and they got a boy with a phone book and a fancy for Scrabble. 

The names of the victims had suddenly became more important than anything else he had tried to find common with the murders—_all different ages, both sexes, different races—everything was different. The names were anagrams—and it was apparent that "David" wanted to be found. Or was simply too foolish to know that someone was just as smart as he was. _

____________________

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Authoritrix Notes: _I had troubles with this one. O.O Thank you again reveiwers, I love you all. _

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	5. Mere Outcast

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[_Authoritrix note: Half way in the middle I (somewhat) change perspectives—I just wanted to give another view on Willard's appearance, because I felt like I was neglecting it or something. _

Wields Ill Rats 

****

By: _TrSolarCat / RocketSolarCat_

****

Chapter 5: _"Mere Outcast [Mute Socrates]"_

_____________

**W**illard's hands traced the words again, airily mocking the words again, " _'David waz here!' _"

Before turning to Socrates, who was on his shoulder's rubbing his whiskers with his salmon paws. He paused a moment as he seen Willard's eyes were upon him, then, nibbling on a piece of loose brown hair that was dangling from Willard—his beady eyes held a stern look. Willard asked him in mock-humour—"What did _David _find here, you suppose?"

**_He found Ben, you should know by now. _**

That satisfied his inquires and Willard pealed his eyes from his companion. Turning to the morning air, the _garden _seemed more beautiful by morning—the misty air was still hovering over the ground and the dew was still resting on the leaves. 

To much of Willard's relief, Major Robinson and Napoleon weren't in the neighboring yard that morning—_long night_, he supposed, _must have been scoping father's old rhododendrons. _It was a blessing that the old man had not been there. Willard had yet to get any sleep, the old house _had _been taken apart. Thankfully all the things he had went for were still there: the fire-poker (still covered in blood), the folder full of father's old things (including the old Swiss Army Knife) and several old brown suits. 

Sighing he took a notable glance back—afraid to look away, because he knew it was the last time he'd ever see his home—finally hoping the rusty gate again. 

"Let's go see Cathryn, Socrates." He smiled wryly, forcing himself to leave without turning back to look at _home_.

_______________

**A **redheaded boy sat quietly behind the counter of _Heaven-View Apartments_, his head down in thought—reading a book promptly placed in his lap. 

_He heard the man come in—it didn't mean much—he was in no hurry to put down his book. _

Clacking shoes against the shiny white tiles, as they grew closer he didn't bother to look up. Until the man was standing over the desk—then he slothfully pulled his pupils from the text. Saying in a mellow voice, "Yes? How may I help you…" 

The man was a lean fellow, with a sharp hook of a nose, sleepless circles under his eyes; hair smooth brown slicked behind his ears—and bizarrely enough a snow-white rat on his collar. The man looked to be in his mid-thirties (give or take, the young man's judgment was screwed up somehow every time he looked at the ivory rat). The man seemed oblivious to the rat's sharp clinging claws, that were sure to hurt—yet the suit he wore was of a thick brown formal nature (so he might not feel the claws at all). 

"Please, Sir. No pets." The young man told him punctually—pointing hastily to a sign on the exterior of the door that stated the same policy. 

Preparing to turn back to his book the man looked down into his lap once more—but the man on the other side of the counter didn't move. After a moment's time, the odd man told him, "Socrates isn't a _pet_."

_Something was contemptible in the voice—a biting tone—best leave it alone. _

"How can I help you, then?" 

"I'd like to know which apartment Cathryn Miller lives in." His hushed voice said his eyes still held an acrid look though his voice passionless. 

The young man automatically began to spill several lines, "_We aren't at liberty to give out the name's of our residents unless you are a relative, spouse, or other specified person._"

After another moment, the answer of—"Is _potential _spouse good enough?" 

_Potential—_this brought an rare smile to the young man's face, "Don't you think a lot of people say that about her? I'd like to—Miller, right?"

_A nod of his head, the man gave a tilted look—confused. _

"She's _hot_!" The clerk breathed, a broad grin crept over his unruffled face, "I just don't know what about her sets me off, but still…"

"_Her knees._" The brown-haired fellow peculiarly smiled, when the clerk gave him a tainted scrunching of his face, the man repeated it, "_It's her knees._"

"_Yea_." He nodded in agreement—_maybe this fellow wasn't so bad after all, sure he had a pet rat, but something about his obscure nature was wonderful_—"Listen, I'll cut you some slack—if you really know her! I'll give you her number to _buzz _her."

"Thank you." The man gave a glance back to the ivory rat on his shoulder—_the little fend was chewing absently on some loose string from the man's suit. Its eyes were set on the young man dauntlessly—protective little thing—_

**Isn't it? **

____________________

**C**athryn heard the _buzz _as she stepped from the vaporous bathroom, her hair in a tight towel—another over her lean body. She dashed over to the doorway, pressing a button on the off-white box—"Yes?"

_"Cathryn!" _

_She let go of the button._ Astonishment swept over her face, then she pressed the button again—_"Willard! What are you—! How did you get—Willard! Stay right there!" _

Letting go of the button, she rushed for the bathroom. 

____________________

**H**e was waiting for her patiently, in an auburn office chair—sitting by the entrance. His hand in his lap, eyes roving about at the aspects of the room, and a calm face. _He reminded her of a child waiting for his mother to return or one at a doctor's office_—either way, it brought a smile to her face as she came closer into view of him. 

His brown eyes caught her—a infrequent little smile over his face—_just that was enough to make her heart skitter, it wasn't like him! Maybe it was and she didn't know it—maybe Willard did smile, but never to her. So few of his emotions she had seen, his anger—at Martin—his shame, and his sorrow. _

But now he was smiling. In turn she was beaming right back. 

Her hair was tangled, wet and in her face—but he didn't hesitate as he stepped forward to her—putting his extended arms about her. Willard's arms were possessive around her, she felt him go weak under her— he shakily whispered, "Cathryn, please help me. I don't have anyone else. I'm so tired—I'm so lost, I need your help."

_Are you going to leave me in the cold again, Cathryn? For the rats, Cathryn? _

There's a rat on his shoulder. It's right near your face, why aren't you scared of it? Why aren't you pulling away? 

"Of course not." Cathryn breathed her hands slide around him slowly, holding him to her. Soft tears began to form—"I won't _ever _do that to you again." 

__________________________

**_"C_**athryn can I ask you something?" He asked her sometime during the later hours of the day. She had stayed with him there all day—she called her day off at work, told a lie for him—'the car was broke again'. Willard had been sitting on the couch, Socrates had made himself at home on a small throw pillow, and Cathryn herself was in the kitchen, "Well, I think I know who killed all those people, and I was going to ask for your help." 

She came out, giving him an odd look, hands on her hips; "You aren't going to tell me Ben are you?" 

**"Alfred! Are you in there?" Mother was at the bathroom door, yelling at him again. Her eyes were frail, her lips were together in a tight displeased manner—her gray-tint hair frazzled. She hit the old tan door once more, "Alfred, answer me!"**

"No. He's being helped by this boy I seen on my way here." Willard explained, looking to the sleeping form of Socrates, "His name is David. He was spelling it in an anagram for the name: David. Aiymee Stonewall, Victor Ironmorge, Danielle Landcastor, Dan Tailyos and Ingried Evans."

**He had been in that bathroom for hours. Willard watched his mother's features grow more frantic then. Panic on her worn face, her voice was hoarse now as she begged at the silent portal, "Alfred, please!"**

"But Willard. That's five." Cathryn sighed; an odd air came about her, "You didn't know about the sixth?" 

His lips were drawn, a slightly calculating look in his darkened eyes, "No."

"His name was Stanley Stephensons. I was sure he was found before you got those reports from the FBI." Cathryn explained, "Then the sixth and seventh were found last night: Thomas Simon and Natiella Ivangrede." 

**She was crying now, screaming. **

He shook his head, troubled, "That doesn't make since—I'm sure…"

Socrates was beginning to stretch his long tail uncurling—as he gave an annoyed glance to Cathryn. 

Still distressed Willard softly questioned, "C-can I take a shower, please. I think that will help me to think." 

"Sure." She gave him a honey smile, still not seeing a response—it dropped back to a placid confused look.

**All those times she had yelled at him. In her anger, her hates—her sheer malice. Father wasn't a strong person—she was too much for him—he wouldn't yell back much (sometimes he would—if she anger him enough). Just take it—let her beat him down with it. She wanted him to feel worthless; it must have made her feel damn good! **

Telling Cathryn a hushed word of thanks he closed the bathroom door. Hearing Socrates' claws at the door he quickly reopened it, letting the tiny rodent in as well. 

Willard was sitting on the top of the stairwell, pretending not to listen to her yell further into the bathroom door. He too was worried about his Father—but not in the same way Mother was. He didn't want father to come out—just so Mother could yell at his face—he wanted him to come out because he was worried. Daddy had that knife in there. 

Willard took off the overcoat, hanging on a cold brass hook on the back of the door. Then, as he stripped the rest off—the entire process was done automatically—his mind wondered about the allusive "David".

Maybe Cathryn was right, he didn't exist—but Willard was so sure—David's eyes were wide in fear at the sight of Willard, David knew who he was. 

**It's so odd. **

Putting his hands on the knobs—he turned them slowly, hearing the creaking as water spurted out. 

**Mother loved to argue with Father. Any chance she had! But today it was different. For all her begging—Willard finally realized his mother was scared—she didn't want to argue. She wasn't trying to now—she just wanted Father to open the door.**

When the water was perfect for him he closed the shower door, glancing around—he spotted some cabinets—finding one full of bathe cloths, "There we are." 

He stepped back, hearing something under his feet give a metallic crunch, a knot in his stomach, instantly— "Socrates?" 

The rat was sitting on the back of the lavatory, leaning over towards the stream of water that was hitting lightly against the shower doors. 

Willard looked down, slowly pulling up his foot—it was the knife. 

Strange, his mother didn't want to fight. After all that screaming—

Running it through his delicate fingers—he flipped out its silver blade. 

**—after all her pleading, only then for the first time in Willard's life was he frightened—**

It was so innocent, his eyes were glued to the knife—but he didn't quite know what he intended to do—something was taking over him. His fingers run across the blade—lightly, it didn't cut—it was like hypnosis. The blade was enchanting—don't let the feeling die! He moved it down his hands, through the palms—to the wrist. 

Father's blood was still in cakes on the knife, but flaked off as he run it back against his skin again. Then, changing directions—again. 

**—the day Mother stopped yelling—**

Socrates was watching him, as he began to run it harder—pushing it more into his wrist. Right over the vein—pressing it until the pain began. Small insignificant at first—press it deeper! Blood was beginning to speckle the end of the blade—further! It was a cold burning feeling, licking his lips Willard let the blade rest in its bloody orifice. 

**—then, there was silence.**

His knees went, as he fell into the tile floor—panting, tears were coming from his eyes. 

"What am I doing?" He whispered barely audible, his head went into the rough now-scarlet tiles. Willard gave a half-conscious look to Socrates—nothing stir in the rat. 

**The silence is what killed Willard. He could take anything—but silence. The day Mother stopped screaming, and Father stopped hiding—was the day Willard knew: Nothing was right anymore. **

****


	6. So Damn Arguable

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Authoritrix Notes: _I'd like to beg your forgiveness for producing this so late! I have had a lot of stress here lately. Ex: My mother in the hospital and everyone's favorite: Graduation. Ouch! Please forgive me! _

Wields Ill Rats 

****

By – _RocketSolarCat_

****

Chapter 6 – _"So Damn Arguable [Double Anagrams]"_

_____________________

**_The handle on the bathroom door was what gave in first—not mother's crying—as it broke, falling to shambles on the floor the door fell open. Creaking slowly upon the hinges, as mother's silenced figure lightly pushed it further. _**

Willard's eyes opened slowly, carefully. His head throbbed with a sharp pain—everything hurt. First thing he noticed was the dull pain in his wrist, then the fact that they were covered in tight bandages. His head on a fluffy feather-filled pillow—_Cathyrn's bedroom. _Inhaling heavily Willard thought's were suddenly pleasant—he was in _Cathyrn's bed_. 

Bringing a hand over his face, he attempted to sit up, seeing movement to the corner of his vision. Cathryn was sitting calmly in a wooden chair just beside the bed, a book lay open onto her lap, she seemed to have just woke. 

A saddened, imploring voice, "Willard…What happened?" 

**_Mother's sudden silence, as she stood in the doorjamb of the bathroom drew his attention—scrunching his face in quiet confusion, he rose from his sitting place at the top of the stairs. Stepping towards his mother—standing behind her, through her he could see the bathroom fully. His eyes widened as he first caught sight of the blood seeping onto the ground. All he could see of his father, at that moment were his feet, he sat on the lavatory but his legs were slack as if he were slumped down. _**

Then, as he took a step back—a board creaking under him, his mother turned to him suddenly realizing he was there, her eyes wide. She rushed to him, quickly putting her hands over his eyes she yelled at the top of her lungs, "No, don't!"

It was too late for that, he'd seen, even as she had turned to stop him—that his father wasn't just slumped down, he was laying against the side of the sink, blood covering his arms—slack at his sides, the knife upon the ground in front of the toilet. 

He turned slightly towards her, looking into her eyes, her concern was fully showing in her brown eyes. Softly he replied, "Cathyrn…It just happens…"

"But why!" She demanded, raising her voice to a sharp, harsh yelled. Willard's eyes closed at this—_he hated it when people yelled. _Once he reopened his eyes, he seen she had a hand to her face, a single tear down her face, "I'm sorry, Willard…. I don't understand…that knife…"

"Cathryn, it's…" Looking down he searched his head for the right words, "It's like a curse, every time I see it, I think about it…"

He glanced into her eyes, shamefully, she returned the gaze, with one increased in worry. Then, behind her, he seen something on the corner of the chair moving—Socrates. Balancing himself on the back of the chair, his pink tail wrapped around Cathryn's shoulder. Cathryn didn't seem phased as she continued to look further into Willard's eyes. 

"It's gone. You don't have to worry about it, Willard." She said in a nonchalant manner after several seconds. 

_Gone? _Willard's eyes widened, "_Gone! Where?_"

"Willard you just said—." She began, leaning towards his reclined figure, attempting to grab onto his hand resting to his side. Jerking away Willard began to shift in the bed, put into motion by the words, "It won't be a _curse _to you anymore! Willard, please, you shouldn't get up now—."

Angered, his eyes burned with tears as he continued to get up, "You don't understand Cathryn! I need that…It's not just that—it's my _father's_ where is it?"

His sudden demand gave her a shocked look as Cathryn watched him scrambled from the bed. Socrates was also beginning to become more agitated, he climbed slowly down the side of the timber chair, clawing his way towards Willard's bare feet. Willard himself, swiftly looking about for his clothes, finding them in a pile onto the floor he searched through them wildly, frantic—searching for the Swiss Army Knife. Not finding it he turned back to her, choking out each word through his frustration—his voice was still soft, "Where…is…it?"

"I threw it away, Willard, I thought—" She began in a pleading voice, as he (followed closely by Socrates) headed towards the kitchen trash, she called after him, "The trash is gone Willard…"

Stopping fast—as Socrates hit into his heels, backing up he rubbed his nose into his hands irritated—Willard heatedly stood in the living room soundless, except his rigid breathing. Cathryn approached reluctantly, putting a hand onto his shoulder, "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to Willard. I was just so scared of that knife, you could have killed yourself! Don't you understand, _I didn't want you to hurt yourself anymore with it!_ Please! Willard…" 

Turning to her slowly, Willard looked into her eyes—tears freely falling from her—_Cathryn looked so beautiful, whether she was crying or laughing_—as he looked at her with a sudden softness he couldn't help but let his anger seep back into him. Though, he couldn't bare to hurt her—_didn't want to see her cry_—but he didn't want to let the fact go that she took away one of the only things of his father's that he had left in this world. 

Emotionlessly, he backed out of her grasp, letting her hand fall from his shoulder. 

"I'm going to look for David." He kneeled down, delicately picking up the velvet rat near his feet. He walked back into Cathryn's bedroom—picking up the ruffled pile of clothing. 

Minutes later, he emerged once more, Cathryn was sitting on the couch—facing the blank television screen soundlessly, he said nothing as he made his way across the living area. Socrates on his shoulders gave him a little nudge as he passed Cathryn—_it seemed even the rat wanted something more to be said. Perhaps even rats know that no one should leave angry—**you never know what will happen, you might not return to apologize—fate works in odd ways, Willard. Say something, Willard. **_

The door slammed shut.

Cathryn was left alone, a deep sigh as she muttered, "Be careful, Willard. I love you." 

__________________________

_Sometime deeper into the night, Cathryn recovered from her comatose state, upon the couch, and reached hatefully for the remote. Clicking the on button before roughly tossing the remote onto the opposite side. A picture of a blond anchor woman, wearing red popped onto the screen, cheerfully, "…And that's it for the sports, now back to John Franklen for the Crime Watch News, on KXL News-13!"_

Cathryn shifted in agitation as another anchor came on, she hissed angrily, flopping her feet onto the couch as well, "I hate this guy…"

"…Thanks, Micky." He nodded his head, into view behind the anchor was a darkened building, "Now for the latest update on the Rat Slayings…Earlier this afternoon, seventeen year old Adam Ellans and his five year old step-sister Ursula Demona's bodies were found in this building. This building, once used as a rat Poison production plant. Yes, you heard right—now the amazing part of this is, that not a single rat has died from the poisoning…which is highly suspicious, according to some rat experts, because rat poison was covering the floors in some parts of the plant. For a rat to pass up, a 'free meal' on the floors would take…to quote the experts, 'A highly skilled rat trainer'. 

"This makes the ninth and tenth victims, and hopefully the last. So far, the only clues have been the victims bodies…Back to you, Micky." The anchor shook his head in mock-concern, as the camera flipped back to the blond woman in red. 

Cathyrn gave a concerned look. Getting up slowly, she went into the kitchen on the table lay a writing tablet open onto a page were the victim's names were etched in pencil (in Willard's handwriting).

Aiymee Stonewall

Victor Ironmorgue 

Danielle Landcastor 

__

Ingried Evans 

Dan Tailyos 

Thomas Simon

Natiella Ivangrede 

Stanley Stephensons

_Then, she quickly penciled in the others: _

Adam Ellans 

Ursula Demona 

__

Slowly observing the names, over once more—a hand slowly come over her mouth.   


"Oh my god." Her eyes darted around quickly, grabbing the pencil resting against the side of the notepad. She shakily began to circle the first letters of each word. 

**Willard reached the bottom of the steps, after talking once more to the young man behind the counter—he was still salivating over thoughts of Cathryn. Socrates on one shoulder, brushing against his neck, he gave a small noise as Willard roughly pushed the glass door open, jarring the little rat to one side (he held on tightly with his claws). **

Once outside, Willard looked to both ends of the street. Whispering, "I swear, it feels like someone is watching us. Doesn't it, Socrates?" 

A, V, D, I, D, A, T, S, N and U. 

"_David's Aunt_." She concluded, scrunching her face in a thoughtful glance, exhaling deeply before pulling out a chair and (practically) falling down into it. She put her hands up in disgust, "I don't get it…" 

Another irritated look, before she glancing back towards the paper—Cathryn seen something. 

"Wait…"

**Willard began to pace towards the bus, telling Socrates the best place to start was home—even though he swore not to go back, because he'd most likely be caught. As he went towards the stop he heard a soft voice, "Don't do that." **

Quickly turning, Willard caught a view of the blond boy—"David!"

A smile from the child, his flaxen hair ruffled under a dark black Driving Cap, a light blue T-shirt and a pair of blue jeans. His hands to his sides, he didn't move to run away. Willard gave him a questioning glance, then the boy—almost abruptly—said, "There's a cop on that bench. A detective, is more like it…. I've been watching you ever since you left the house—sorry I run away." 

He gave a genuine smile, he gestured for Willard to follow him. Willard simply listened emotionlessly, following him as they walked the opposite direction, asking gently when David was through, "Where is he?"

"Who?" 

"Ben." Willard whispered, as if it were a secret.

David looked down at this one, taking off the hat—he innocently smiled, "You mean...Solomon? That's what I call him! He's got one eye and a bad limp! Half-dead…poor fellow!"

Willard looked up onto his shoulder to Socrates, then once more to the youth before him, "But where is he?" 

S, L, I, E, T, S, I, S, E and D. 

Cathryn rapidly decoded this one as well. Her eyes growing wide—the answer was 'Stiles Dies'. Onto her feet, at this discovery she didn't bother to turn the television off as she rushed to the door of her apartment. Barely remembering to lock it—

She didn't know where to go, or what she was doing, but she knew someone was after Willard—for sure now, and she had to warn him. This was enough for her—she was determined to find him. She couldn't believe she let him go so easily, the person after him…_Not just any person, it was this David boy's aunt. _

**_With another smirk, David replied, turning to Willard, "I'll take you to Solomon, if you want, Mr. Stiles."_**

"Thank you, David." Willard felt the anticipation sweeping through him—he was finally going to see Ben—to finish him off, to kill him—anything to take Ben away from his life forever. With Ben out of his life, he'd finally be free—to go without this agonizing fear of being pursued by the rat. Maybe he'd even get to be with Cathryn (assuming she could forgive him). 

"This way!" David called, as Willard looked up to Socrates once more. 

Socrates' beady eyes shone as he returned Willard's look—it won't be that easy, his manner almost 'told' Willard. 

"Nothing ever is, my friend." Willard replied to Socrates unspoken remark, as he ensued the blond boy. 

_____________________

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End notes: _Last part is up next...t.y. _ ****


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